


shot down

by heartsinhay



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8887249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsinhay/pseuds/heartsinhay
Summary: Sara Crispino, thirstiest virgin in Barcelona, decides to get rejected by pretty much half the skating world. Mila Babicheva, nursing the world's worst Straight Girl Crush in recent history, is just along for the ride.





	

The moment Sara gets Seung-gil’s text, something viselike grips at her heart. Shame feels like the flipside of a crush: flushed face, pounding pulse.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Mila asks, resting her chin on Sara’s shoulder. Wordlessly, Sara shows her the screen.

_I have no interest in you. Please stop contacting me._

“I’m gonna kill him,” Mila says, immediately.

“Don’t!” says Sara, just as instant, “I mean, it’s nice knowing that you’d kill someone for me, but, like. Don’t.”

“He’s an asshole.”

A lock of Mila’s hair falls forward, brushing Sara’s collarbone. _She put her last boyfriend in the hospital_ , Sara thinks, and for some reason the thought just flusters her more. She shrugs, shaking off the feeling.

“I didn’t read his signals. It felt like he wasn’t into me, but I kept pushing, and I shouldn’t have. Besides,” Sara says, looking out over Barcelona, something secret in her smile, “Seung-gil’s not the only one I have my eye on.”

She and Mila are lying side by side on the bed in Sara’s hotel room, Mila holding her phone about an inch away from her face, Sara on her laptop with her legs kicked up in e air. They’ve made an agreement to share Sara’s room, this Final—Yakov packs his skaters four to a room, and comes by at eleven every night to make sure the lights are off.

“Are you sure?” Mila had asked when Sara offered to let her stay,” You were so excited about finally having a room you didn’t have to share with Mickey—“

“I like the company,” Sara’d replied, and she’d picked up Mila’s luggage before Mila could complain.

“I still can’t believe you don’t get your own room,” Sara says, now. Mila’s hair is fanned out above her head as if she’s underwater, her purple bra strap stark against pale skin.

“Viktor always got his own room,” Mila says, scrolling through her texts with an absent swipe of her thumb, “Yakov used to tell us that if we wanted rooms to ourselves, we’d have to break Viktor’s record.”

Her phone dings.

“Ah, speaking of Viktor! He just got married—no, engaged? To Yuuri, the Japanese one.”

“Shit,” Sara says, quietly, but not quiet enough to escape Mila’s notice. Mila props herself up onto her elbows. If she had her sunglasses on, she’d look at Sara over them.  Instead, she just stares, and it makes Sara squirm.

“No. _No. Viktor_ was your next target?”

Sara can feel herself blushing again, a slow heat spreading to the tips of her ears and the space between her collarbones. She doesn’t know what it is about Mila that makes Sara so easily embarrassed. Mila’s always so worldly, so wry, a wisdom and a long string of boyfriends that make Sara feel like a high school kid in comparison. Mila is four years younger than her. It’s not fair.

“It was Yuuri,” Sara admits, “But not anymore! I’m not a homewrecker. I thought he was single.”

_“How?”_

Mila’s laughing at her, she can tell, her voice the same kind of incredulous it is every time they talk about Georgi’s routines.

“I’m bad at this, okay? I don’t know any of the rules—like, is it a signal if someone hugs you, and is it not a signal if they hug everyone else, and if someone double texts you does it mean that they like you or that they don’t like you because they’re not worried about double texting? Everything I know about boys comes from my stupid brother, and _he’s_ a freak of nature.”

“Aren’t you twins?”

Mila’s smile is teasing, sly, and Sara buries her face into the mattress.

“I’m a freak of nature,” she says, muffled, and it’s so melodramatic that she can’t help but laugh. After a second Mila joins in, too, and then they’re both giggling like little kids and the sleepovers Sara never went to.

“Forget the rules,” Mila says, afterwards. Sara peeks up beneath a long sweep of black hair, just for a moment, and suddenly she can’t turn away, caught by the seriousness of Mila’s expression, the solemnity of her gaze. “There’s only one that really matters.”

“It’s ‘be yourself’, isn’t it,” Sara grumbles.

“No,” says Mila, drawing out the word, and when she smiles it is like the lights turning on in a stadium, a sudden dazzling brightness. “It’s don’t cheat on someone with her own fucking ex-girlfriend.”

She nudges Sara with her shoulder, nearly knocking them both off the bed, and Sara laughs.

 

Sara mostly goes out with Georgi because Georgi asks.

Well, okay, he doesn’t really ask. Sara asks. But he gave off a vibe that made it easy to ask, and at this point, Sara’s fine with taking what she can get.

“Here’s what Georgi actually says:

“Nobody’s ever going to love me again.”

Sara and Mila get dinner with Georgi mostly because Mila is an excellent rinkmate and actually cares about Georgi’s emotional state, no matter how ridiculous it is and Sara, still riding off the high of being Mickey-less for the first time in twenty-two years, is feeling kind of charitable.

They all go out for tapas, at a semi-trendy place she and Mickey went to last time they were in town, and Georgi starts talking about his ex before the food even hits the table.

“Anya was—“ here he makes a sweeping, dramatic gesture that probably figured prominently in his free skate—“She was it. She was everything. I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.”

“For the last time, you won’t be,” Mila says, her comforting voice edging onto exasperated, “There are lots of other girls out there. You just have to get off your ass and go look for them.”

“Look who’s saying that,” Georgi sniffs, but he goes back to self-pity before Sara can ask what he means. “No, Anya was the only one who saw my true self. Who could ever want the broken shell of a man she left behind?”

Sara never really saw Georgi in any particular way before, but clarity hits her all at once: he’s here. He’s not bad-looking, necessarily, with the makeup off. And he’s looking for somebody, isn’t he? This is it. This is her chance!

“How about me?”

“You’d… you’d go out with me?” Awed, slightly disbelieving—she could get used to this.

“Yeah,” Sara says, “Why not?”

“Oh,” says Georgi, the smile on his face softer and more fragile than anything she’s seen on him before,” Then—tomorrow?”

“Coffee,” says Sara, “I know a place.”

Sara feels a tug at her elbow. It’s Mila, her carefully neutral expression looking entirely out of place.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she says.

“Sure,” says Sara, smiling at Georgi, wondering whether she can enthrall a man with the sheer power of her not wanting to be a virgin anymore. Probably, right? Georgi seems pretty suggestible.

“I said, I’m going to the bathroom,” Mila repeats.

“Oh! Um. I’ll go with you.”

The bathroom door has barely any time to swing closed before Sara swings Mila into a hug, twirling them around tiled floor.

“Did you see that? My first date! Oh, thank you, thank you for that opening, you’re the best wingman in the world—“

Abruptly she notices that Mila is not hugging back, that she is, in fact, standing limply in Sara’s arms as Sara spins around her. When Sara pulls her back, she can see Mila’s frown.

“Don’t go out with Georgi,” she says. Sara bristles, makes to sweep out the door, but Mila cuts off her route with a hand against the wall before she even gets there.

“I mean it, Sara,” she says, “He’s not—he’s not right for you.”

And in that moment Sara sees someone taller, brown-haired, in Mila’s place, hears Mila’s words in another voice.

“That’s not any of your business,” she spits, and Mila throws up her hands.

“Fine, then, you’re not right for him! The two of you—you’re going to get hurt, and I know it, and I think you know it, too. Trust me, it’s a bad idea.”

Sara is trembling. She wants to hit something, to scream, to carve canyons into the ice with every stroke of her skates. She thinks, suddenly, of Georgi morose in the middle of the restaurant, and this time she knows exactly what she meant.

“Look who’s saying that,” she says, “I might be making the wrong choice, but at least I’m choosing something. You haven’t been out with anyone since Sergei, and it’s been months and months. Just because I’m inexperienced, and I don’t know how things work sometimes—“

She’s in Mila’s space, shoulders hunched so much she has to crane her neck up to look at her. She can barely register the look on Mila’s face: shock, anger, something else? Whatever. Sara leans in more.

“You don’t get to try and hold me back just because you’re scared.”

She whirls out of the bathroom, slams her share of the bill down onto the table, and, remembering Georgi, yells,

“I’m leaving! See you tomorrow at four! Goodnight!”

 

Sara shows up at her date exquisitely made-up, determined to prove Mila wrong. It works for the first five minutes—he says she looks beautiful, and she likes that, and they manage part of a conversation about their plans for the skating season. Then their food comes, and Georgi looks at his cake like it personally slaughtered his entire family, down to the seventh generation.

“Chocolate,” he says, tremulously, “Anya liked chocolate.” _Oh no_ , thinks Sara, and she flags down their waitress to ask for extra napkins.

It’s actually not that bad, as far as dealing with Georgi’s breakup problems goes. No curses. No impromptu launching into his skating routine. A mimimum of tears.

“I tried being angry,” he says, “It didn’t help.”

Sara thinks of Mila in the restaurant bathroom, red hair and blue tile—but that’s not the same, it’s not the same at all, and Sara banishes Mila’s face from her mind.

“I really should get back to training,” she says.

“Of course.”

He stands, and reaches his hand out to her.

“Sara Crispino,” he says, “I think I can feel the sun upon me, now, urging me to move on. Though we may never meet again, I will always remember you as the Florence Nightingale of my heart.”

That’s probably his way of saying that there isn’t going to be a second date, and Sara isn’t going to complain.

“I think I’m going to reactivate my Tinder,” he adds.

“Georgi Popovich,” she says, “If you have any single friends, please give me their numbers.”

She shakes his hand.

 

Emil actually asks to go clubbing with her, and Sara maybe suggests the one place in Barcelona where Georgi said Mila might be. She’s still angry, still wants to show Mila that she can have fun without her, date someone without her, that she doesn’t care about her at all.

“Barcelona!” Emil cheers, raising his shot in a toast to the city before downing it in one gulp. “It’s good to be here, even if I’m not skating. Have you and Mickey been here before?”

“A few times, Sara says, absently scanning the room. A herd of guys in dark pants and pastel button-downs, a blonde with Yuri’s Angels’ signature cat-ear headband… and there. Mila leaning against the wall, framed by the lines of her unbuttoned coat, her crop-top exposing the curve of her waist. Sara’s heart beats faster with—competitive spirit, or something.

“Let’s dance,” she says. She pulls Emil out on to the floor, but really she’s maneuvering them into Mila’s line of sight. Sara knows the moment Mila notices her, because Mila jerks her head up from her phone, shucks off her coat, shoves it at Georgi and heads out onto the dance floor herself.

Sara immediately looks away so she can pretend that she doesn’t even see Mila, that she’s having an awesome time dancing with Emil (who’s doing the robot, just like his routine, because apparently he doesn’t have any other moves).

She can’t help herself, though, and sneaks a glance at Mila, watches her toss back that red hair, not even looking Sara’s way. _Fine_ , Sara thinks, and she loops her arms around Emil’s neck, lets the press of people around her push them close.

She looks at Mila again, just to see if she noticed. Mila, who’s laughing at something Georgi says— _Georgi_ , who isn’t even that funny (well, not intentionally, though admittedly Sara has never heard him try to make a joke).

And then she sees Mila turning slightly towards her, trying to catch a glimpse of Sara from the corner of her eye, and all of a sudden Sara feels incredibly stupid, a little girl playing dress-up in her cute flats (no heels, not for a skater) and favorite red dress. She’s being childish. They’re both being childish, dancing for each other on the opposite sides of the room.

“Hey,” Emil says. They’re close enough, now, that she can hear him speak, tough he has to lean down to shout in her ear. “Do you think Mickey’s going to make it? Should we make sure he isn’t lost or something?”

She pulls back just far enough to actually see Emil, even in the darkness of the club. He’s easy-going, one of the friendliest skaters she knows. He’s handsome, too, blue eyes and what probably counts as a good jawline under that horrific scruff of a beard. And he wants to date her brother so badly she can feel the desperation rolling off him in waves. Sara takes her phone out, and has to step even further away so she can actually use it.

“I’ll tell him we’re going back to your hotel room. He’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Emil grins, and it lights up his whole face. _Good for Mickey_ , Sara thinks, a little bitterly, and places a hand on his arm as he leaves.

“He likes Prosecco,” she says, “Good luck.”

Emil goes off to fight his battle, and now Sara has to face hers.

She walks towards Mila, no longer trying to pretend that her attention’s been anywhere but on her this entire evening, shoves her way through the bros and bachelorette parties and all the other girls in tiny dresses looking to get laid.

Mila freezes when she sees her, standing still as the party pulses around them. Her eyes are wide, and Sara can’t help but wonder what they see—do they notice her dark eyeliner, slowly smudging, the sweat on her brow, the way the hem of her skirt’s started sticking to her thighs?

Sara steps into Mila’s space, so close that her skirt almost brushes Mila’s fingertips, and stops. Getting here was the only thing she’d really thought about. She doesn’t know what to say.

“I—“ she starts. Stops. Waits. But she’s sick of waiting, sick of not having Mila by her side, and it doesn’t really matter what she says anymore, as long as she says something.

“I love this song!” she yells over the music, and Mila’s smile melts her, makes Sara feel like she could float.

“Then let’s dance,” Mila calls in reply.

This is what she wanted, this: not a night with Emil (though she wouldn’t have said no to that) but to dance with Mila, to yell along to the chorus of an cheesy song in a shitty club with her best friend. When the song ends, Sara wastes no time in grabbing Mila’s wrist and pulling her out of the club, turning back to laugh delightedly at the look on Mila’s face (surprised, exasperated, fond) as they burst out into the night air.

“Cold?” Sara asks.

“I’m Russian,” Mila replies, instantly, even though Sara can see goosebumps starting to form on her arm.

“Well, I’m cold,” she says, bumping Mila’s shoulder and sliding her hand lower to lace their fingers together,” We’ll go back in a bit. I just…”

Her breath is a white cloud in the cold air, each word a puff of steam.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” she says, “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I got defensive, and—I wasn’t really angry at you as much as I was at Mickey, for keeping me from dating for so long, and at me, for letting him.”

“I shouldn’t have interfered,” Mila offers in reply, “You’re both my friends, and I didn’t want either of you to get hurt, but it wasn’t my place.”

Sara stares up at the sky, stars blotted out by city lights, and tightens her grip on Mila’s hand.

“I’m going to get hurt,” she says, “I can’t avoid it, and I don’t want to. Getting hurt means I’m getting somewhere, and I want to—“

How can she explain it, those long years of stagnation, of inertia, and the joy of finally getting to make mistakes?

Mila squeezes her hand back.

“That something I like about you,” she says, “You’re not an idiot, you know what the risks are, but you always rush in anyway. I wish I could be like that, sometimes.”

For a long, terrifying moment, Sara is caught by the light in Mila’s eyes, the sweep of her eyelashes, the elegant slope of her neck. _You know the risks_ , Mila says, but Sara doesn’t know what this is, or what it means.

She drops Mila’s hand, and tries to remember how to smile.

“Let’s go back in,” she says, “I still want to dance.”

 

 

They walk into their hotel lobby in a whirl of ebullience, all the weird feelings and awkward moments in the world forgotten, Sara still half-dancing to an imagined beat. Mila sees one of her rinkmates and excuses herself to go talk to them, and, halfway to the elevators, Sara spots Jean-Jacques Leroy leaning against the wall and pretending to text somebody, sunglasses glinting on top of his head.

She backs up a little and considers him: Successful. Hot. Kind of an asshole, but hot.

“JJ!” she calls, “Want to go get a drink?”

He almost drops his phone.

“Really? I mean—sure. I’ll show you how to hit the town—“ He tips his sunglasses off the top of his head and onto the bridge of his nose in a single, douchey motion—“JJ style. We just have to wait for my fiancée.”

 _Fiancée_. Sara’s made a mistake. She’s made an awful, awful, mistake, and it won’t stop talking to her.

“Her name’s Isabella, you’ll love her. _I_ love her. President of my fan club. Perfect ten. Hey—what’s your shirt size? ‘Cause JJ Style just released a new line of womenswear—“

Sara sags against the wall, letting out a cry of fake pain.

“Oh, no,” she says, “I think I just pulled a muscle. It’s cramping. Terribly. Guess we can’t get that drink.”

“Shit, uh… Do you need help getting to your room?”

“No! I mean, it’s okay, because,” Sara says, spotting her savior, “Mila can take me back up. We’re sharing.”

“I can,” says Mila, mirror-smooth, and she picks Sara up into a bridal carry with ease. Sara lets out a yelp of surprise. She almost kicks out with the leg that’s supposed to be in terrible pain, but she catches herself in time and wraps her arms around Mila’s neck for—balance, probably, instead, listening to JJ as he calls after them.

“Alright!” he yells, “Sounds cool!” A beat, and then: “Let’s get brunch!”

 

Mila doesn’t drop her even when the elevator doors close behind them. Her shoulders shake with silent laughter, but the arms cradling Sara to her are steady. Safe.

“Oh my god,” Sara groans, burying her face into Mila’s neck, “That was it. That was my lowest moment. I just hit rock bottom.”

Mila hums, considering, and Sara feels the vibration of Mila’s throat against her forehead.

“No,” she says, “I don’t think so. Your lowest point was probably when you went out with Georgi.”

She laughs, and it rumbles through both of them. Sara can feel Mila’s hand against the outside of her thighs. Leaning into Mila like she is, every breath brings her Mila’s scent, sweat from the dance floor and apple blossom shampoo. She is just about eye level with the place where Mila’s neck curves into her shoulder, and Sara wants to—to _bite_ it, and she can’t pretend that she doesn’t know exactly where that thought came from.

Mila resettles Sara’s weight in her arms, hefting her as easily as she would a handbag, and Sara realizes three things that she really should’ve noticed a long time ago.

One: she is attracted to Mila Babicheva, and has been for a long time. Two: she is probably going to die at once if Mila doesn’t kiss her right now. Three: this is different from all of her other attempts at romance thus far, because Mila is someone that Sara will stop at nothing to seduce.

She nestles closer to Mila with a small, not entirely feigned sigh of contentment, making sure that her breath brushes against Mila’s collarbone, and feels rather than sees Mila swallow.

Mila doesn’t put her down until she has to find their room key, and, when she does, Sara ends up hovering hesitantly in the doorway, remembering, suddenly, that she has never successfully seduced anybody in her entire life. Should she put some music on? Ask room service for champagne?

“What’s with you?”

Mila’s lounging on the bed already. The bed that they agreed to share. If Sara doesn’t do anything, tonight is going to be super awkward, and also she’s going to explode, so. Action. She peels off her dress.

Her whole world, for a moment, is nothing but red fabric, but then the dress comes off and her world rapidly becomes the look on Mila’s face, a swiftly-darkening red on her cheeks that Sara’s never seen before. Mila opens her mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a strangled croak, and all at once Sara loses her nerve.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she says, her own voice less than steady, but, in a final fit of courage, throws her bra out into the hallway from the safety of her half-closed bathroom door. The door shuts, and Sara sags against hotel towels—shit, shit, shit, she’s messed up her only plan, and she has no idea what to do now.

The shower calms her nerves, and Sara steps out in a nightgown only a little more modest than her dress, her hair slightly damp at the ends. She doesn’t have the nerve to cuddle up against Mila like she usually would, her head on Mila’s shoulder or her legs in Mila’s lap, but she sits down next to her, anyway, and pushes her feet under the comforter.

“Thanks for carrying me up all that way,” she tries, and Mila nods, once, her whole body stiff, eyes locked onto her phone.

“No problem.”

Sara searches for something to say, comes up against nothing but teen movies and old romance novels in her mind, and she’s not sure if Mila would really get it if Sara compared her eyes to the “particular azure of the morning sky”.

“You smell really nice,” she says, her voice low, “Is that perfume?”

“Ah,” says Mila, and Sara hears with satisfaction the hitch in Mila’s breath, “I—I don’t think so?”

But she’s still staring at Twitter, even though she hasn’t scrolled or anything in a full minute. Sara almost gives up at that, almost pulls up the covers and goes to sleep, but she is Sara Crispino, she knows what the risks are and runs in anyway, bravery is in her family’s core, and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t try one last time.

“I know I’m being embarrassing,” she says, a waver in her voice, “And I’ll drop it if you want me to and we’ll never mention it again, but, Mila, I really want you to kiss me.”

That gets Mila to drop her phone entirely, whirl around so quickly her hair moves like she’s just done a quadruple Lutz. She holds Sara’s gaze for a long moment. _Azure-blue eyes_ , thinks Sara. Sky blue. Ice blue. She can’t remember what color the ocean is, anymore, or if it matches.

Mila sways toward her, and Sara knows that she should close her eyes, but she keeps them open anyway, she doesn’t want to miss a second of this, she can’t look away—

Mila stops, leans back.

“I don’t think we should,” she says, and Sara, silly, emotional, has to blink very fast before she can smile.

“Okay,” she says. Grabs the phone on the bed, realizes it’s Mila’s, turns toward the nightstand to find her own. Mila’s hand on her shoulder stops her.

“Sara. Sara, wait. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Sara does. Mila is solemn-faced, frowning, her eyebrows furrowed.

“It’s not—I can’t—“

She runs a hand through her hair, unfairly attractive, and takes a deep, wavering breath.

“Sara, the thing is, I like you,” Mila says, “Romantically. And I could deal with it back when I thought it was just a straight-girl crush, and I know you really want to kiss somebody, and I support that, I want you to find someone, but—“

She breaks off, and Sara doesn’t say anything, too worried that an interruption will stop the flow of Mila’s voice.

“But I don’t think I could deal with it,” Mila continues, softly, “If you kissed me because you wanted anybody, and then you found someone you actually liked, the same way I like you, and—“

She shrugs.

“You’re a good friend. I like being friends, I never expected anything else. And I don’t think I could really handle, emotionally, anything more.”

“It’s not like that!”

Sara almost wants to take a second to think through everything Mila’s just said, to cast her memory back over the past few months and search for the signs, but every second she doesn’t speak is another second of Mila being completely, absolutely wrong. She grabs Mila’s hands, clasps them in her own.

“Mila, look. I tried so hard with so many people—Seung-Gil, Yuuri, Georgi, Emil, even JJ—and it didn’t work out with any of them, and you know why?”

Mila’s smile is wry, fragile, trying for the normal, teasing Mila Babicheva and falling short.

“Because you have horrible gaydar and bad taste in men?”

“No! I mean yes, that’s the truth, but it’s not my point.”

She draws closer to Mila, brings their foreheads together, stares into Mila’s eyes as if she could bore the truth into her with the force of her gaze.

“What I’m trying to say is, the only reason I could take all those risks is because I had you by my side.”

Her voice, despite herself, gets quieter with embarrassment, and only their proximity lets Mila hear her next words.

“And… I’ve always thought about you, but until now I never realized how much.”

She looks up, and the corners of Mila’s eyes are crinkling up with her smile, a half-disbelieving curl to her lips.

“Kiss me, then,” she says, and Sara’s cheeks flush again, her pulse on track to accelerate past the speed of sound when she admits:

“I don’t know how.”

“Well,” Mila says, low and teasing, and she swoops in, a hand on the back of Sara’s neck guiding her head. So this is what it’s supposed to be like, Mila’s lips soft against hers, a strand of her hair tickling against Sara’s chin, the slow, deliberate slide of her hand against Sara’s hip. Sara loses track of times, of everything except learning that she should tilt her head like _this_ and open her mouth like _this_ and hold on to Mila’s waist like—

Mila pulls back, not so wise and knowing after all when she’s trying to catch her breath.

“That’s basically all there is to kissing,” she says, tucking a strand of Sara’s hair behind her ear.

“I think I’m getting the hang of it,” Sara replies, and she pulls Mila back in again, and again, and again.

**Author's Note:**

> \- after this Sara feels a debt to JJ as the Man Who Brought Them Together and they actually do get brunch  
> \- She also makes the wise and excellent (aka really bad) choice to get all the awkwardness in her life over with in one fell swoop and invites Emil and Mickey... it's the world's worst morning-after brunch. JJ and Isabella have a blast  
> \- At the women's final Sara gets second (she's been awakened) and Mila gets third. Sara mostly just cares about skating artistically. Mila is hella competitive but they talk about it and eventually it's okay  
> \- They never consciously match up their skating themes but always end up with themes each season that complement each other. Next year Sara's theme is "Enchantment" and Mila's is "Love Potion" because she's been Influenced by Georgi  
> \- Eventually when they decide to have kids Sara basically lives this fic all over again. Mickey volunteers as a sperm donor but is immediately rejected, they decide to just go to a bank instead
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](heartsinhay.tumblr.com) if you want to talk more about Skating Lesbians!


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